


I'm Not Touching You

by Chokopoppo



Series: Midian Hill [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Backstory, M/M, Mutual Pining, Seizures, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23515018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo
Summary: How First Aid and Ambulon made their way to Midian Hill, and how Chicago treated them before OR: Ratchet's very effective recruitment techniques.About a decade before the events of The Face of the Wilderness.
Relationships: Ambulon/First Aid (Transformers)
Series: Midian Hill [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691989
Comments: 17
Kudos: 56





	I'm Not Touching You

**Author's Note:**

> throws myself on the ground two months late: HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY, BABE
> 
> This is a gift for HollowpointHeart / Zephuckyr and wouldn't you know it, it was supposed to be posted on February 14th! Shock of shocks, things didn't exactly go to plan. Here it is now, though! 
> 
> Uh, for those not in the know, this is part of that other bigger humanformers fic that I do, it's, uh, it's over there. I'm gonna throw these in a series so I can keep writing these little so-n-so fics, I think, this was fun. And stressful! But fun.

So, like, First Aid _basically_ knows this kid, right? Except he doesn’t know his name, or anything about him. They take the same bus to the university every day, which means they probably live in around the same area, and he’s always got his headphones on, so he’s probably a total music freak. A real tall glass of water, which is to say he’s tall and kinda scrawny in the shoulders. First Aid figured you were supposed to fill out by the time you were twenty-one, but that just tells you what he knows.

Anyway, so he knows the kid by eye, _basically._ They’re usually studying in the library around the same time, which means they’ve probably got similar school and work schedules, so they’re probably around the same age. They don’t actually have any classes together, as far as he can tell, but maybe they’re in a lecture hall or something? Who knows! Certainly not him.

Point being, he’s not totally sure how to take it when the kid just walks up to him in the middle of study hall, a laminated sheet of paper in his hands and a deadeyed expression.

“Um, hey,” First Aid says as he approaches, pulling his headphones off one ear, “what’s, uh, what’s up?”

“Hi, my name’s Ambulon,” the kid says, “we take the same bus to class?”

“Yup,” First Aid says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “I’m First Aid. Do you want some desk space? ‘Cause I can move my backpack if you—“

“I’m about to have a seizure,” Ambulon interrupts, and shoves the paper at First Aid entreatingly, “could you read this and just make sure no one touches me while it’s happening? Sorry,” he adds, clenching his jaw nervously. “I didn’t know who else to ask, and you look nice.”

“Uh,” First Aid says, “yeah, I can—yeah, sure. I got it.” He takes the laminated sheet and looks down at it. It has a list of instructions on it. “Do I need to call an ambulance, or—?”

“Please don’t do that,” Ambulon says, getting down on his knees and arranging his jacket into a little pillow, “this is totally normal for me. If I went to the hospital every time it happened, I’d never get any classwork done. Plus, I’d be flat broke.”

“You’re a medical student,” First Aid says, getting up and moving around the table so that he’s a little closer to Ambulon. He’s lying flat on his back on the ground now. He looks a little pale. “Aren’t you flat broke anyway?”

Ambulon grins up at him. And then he has a seizure.

First Aid reads the paper for a few seconds. ‘ _Hi, I’m Ambulon, and I have a seizure disorder!’_ Is written at the top in big, happy bold letters. _‘If I gave you this sheet, I need you to check the time. If my seizure lasts five (5) minutes or more, please call an ambulance.’_

First Aid checks the time. He does some quick math that he probably shouldn’t need to do, as, like, a medical student? But which he does, twice.

He learns a lot in the next two minutes, sitting on a chair in the study hall, watching a kid he kind-of knows go unconscious and start shaking. He learns that Ambulon has something called _tonic clonic seizures,_ that he takes medicine for them, that they’re localized in the left side of his brain, and that they happen between three and six times a day. He also learns that Ambulon loses about an hour of time to recovery every time he has one.

The seizure lasts two minutes, and First Aid lets Ambulon sleep for another twenty. Then he nudges him with his foot to try and get him up. “Hey, man,” he says, when Ambulon starts rousing, “it’s getting pretty late. You need a ride home or something?”

Ambulon squints at him. “You don’t have a car,” he says, “you take the bus.”

“Okay, so, I’ll take the bus home with you,” First Aid decides. “Where’s your stuff? I can carry it for you.”

It’s not, he decides, the _most_ batshit way anyone has ever made a friend. But it’s clocking in pretty high on his own personal scoreboard.

“Fuck Pharma,” Ambulon says, dropping a stack of textbooks on the table in the dining room.

“Yeah,” First Aid agrees. “But why are we mad today?”

Pharma sucks. Empirically. First Aid has run the facts and figures on their teacher, from his laborious lecture style to his smug condescending attitude to his blatant favoritism and, yeah, the results are positive: fuck that guy.

They’ve been studying under Pharma for two semesters of their residency now. Following him around, listening to him wax poetic about bedside manner, standing next to him while he explains how to cut a heart open. He doesn’t give his students much chance to practice. He’s the best surgeon in the hospital, he explains to them, which means patients who pay extra to see him are expecting to be treated by _him._ If you don’t like that, find another practitioner to waste the time of.

Oh, there’s another thing about Pharma that sucks: he’s a bully.

“He’s back on about the surgery again,” Ambulon says, and stomps into the kitchen without a backwards glance. “He says he can’t sanction me to perform surgery on patients unless I get it. He’s gonna fail me.”

“He can’t _fail_ you,” First Aid says sharply, “that’s discrimination, there’s policies against that and stuff.”

“Okay, not _fail_ like _give a bad grade_ fail,” Ambulon says, and jerks the freezer door open. It’s packed top to bottom with Totino’s $1 Mini-Pizzas, which is all they eat in between care packages from First Aid’s mom and sponsored events that they weren’t invited to. “But he can refuse me my doctorate if I’m not fit to practice.”

“But you’re good,” First Aid says. “Better than a lot of people in the program. Better than _Knock Out,_ for sure, and he gets special treatment.”

“I could pass out in the middle of doing surgery,” Ambulon says. “I’m not even allowed to drive. Pharma’s totally within his rights to withhold my degree.”

First Aid stares at the sink in the kitchen, seething. He can’t look up at Ambulon, who’s burned through all _his_ anger in a matter of minutes and is now plugging a temperature into their oven despondently.

They’ve lived together for a year or two now. And it works for them—they get the same crap “salary” that all residency students get, which has them stealing toilet paper and almost-expired yogurt cups from the hospital just for a survivable quality of life. Thing is, they’re making the same kind of nothing salary that totally eliminates resentment towards each other. Can’t feel like your roommate isn’t paying their fair share if you know their fair share is exactly the same as your own.

And Ambulon’s got to pay for medication and doctor’s visits and all those kinds of things. Turns out it’s not a package deal with a residency.

“But,” First Aid says, “I mean. What are you going to do? You can’t—I mean, you can’t _get_ the surgery. It’s—I mean, even if it wasn’t _crazy_ dangerous, it’s too expensive. We can’t afford it.”

“You mean _I_ can’t afford it,” Ambulon says, “you don’t need to freak out about the money, Aid. It’s not like I’d ask you to help me pay.”

First Aid tries not to take that as an insult. “I mean,” he says, uncomfortably, “we’re friends. If something happened, I’m not—I wouldn’t leave you out to dry, you know?” He swallows. “I’m not exactly rich in, like, super-super close friends.”

Ambulon stares at him. His $1 Totinos Pizza crinkles as he flexes his fingers awkwardly around the wrapping. “That’s not—what I meant,” he says, “it’s not that I—that I thought you _wouldn’t_ help, it’s just, you know, it’s my brain and my surgery and, I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t _ask_ for your help, I wouldn’t… expect that.”

“Well, maybe you should start expecting it,” First Aid says, before he’s really aware of what he’s saying. His heart is going crazy somewhere inside him. This is like a proposal, he thinks madly, except without the romance and the kissing and stuff. Not that he would propose to Ambulon. That would be. Crazy. Obviously. “You know, we—live together, and, it’s like, you know, I’m not gonna invest in a new roommate at this point. I, um, I really care about you? You’re my best friend, um, and I don’t think you _should_ do this surgery thing because I don’t think they should take your degree away for just, not having a brain that’s perfect, you know what I mean? But if you think you have to, or if we can’t get someone to back us up to Pharma, then, I mean, I’ll—I’ll help you pay for it. Whatever you need.” He swallows. He really, _really_ wishes he had some water, or a good joke to follow this up with. Instead, he points at the pizza in Ambulon’s hand. “Throw another one of those in there for me.”

“Wow, um,” Ambulon says. “I mean. Pharma offered to do it for free?”

“What?” First Aid’s face goes hot all over. “And you let me say all that _garbage?”_

“It was kind of sweet,” Ambulon says, and smiles, all lopsided and toothy. “I meant to stop you, but you were being really nice, so I didn’t… want to?”

“Oh, come _on,”_ First Aid says miserably, and plops himself into a nearby chair. His stomach is all twisted up from looking at Ambulon smiling, so he stares at the fridge instead.

First Aid’s not stupid, despite the stammer that works its way out of him when he gets nervous and his bad habit of filling space with _ums_ and _ers._ He knows he gets, like, a _feeling_ when he looks at Ambulon, sometimes. The thing is, it’s not above board. That is to say, there’s rules about dating coworkers at their hospital, and how you’re not supposed to do it. Apparently, there was some really nasty divorce or something _years_ ago, and now there’s all these petty rivalries between the older guard based on whose side they took. Anyway, to stop it from happening again, no one’s allowed to date anyone else who works in the hospital. Even _janitors._

And he likes being friends with Ambulon. They don’t have to wreck _that_ just because they’re both wicked cute and they’ve got a good rapport and, honestly, they’re not getting any younger. First Aid has a guaranteed job under Doc Hook if he finishes residency. He’s not gonna risk getting kicked out. Anyway. Crushes are temporary, friendship is forever.

“Why’s he offering to do it for free?” First Aid asks after a minute, when Ambulon’s tearing the pizzas out of their packaging and carefully arranging them on their one (1) baking pan. “It’s not cheap to do surgery of any kind, much less on the brain. Did he win the lottery or something? Did he get a ‘one free surgery’ coupon with his Christmas bonus?”

“Ha, ha,” Ambulon says dryly. “He wants to do it for some paper he’s writing about tonic clonic seizures. See if they can be cured.” He opens the oven door and drops the pan in. “He’ll get a grant from the hospital to do it if he writes and presents his findings. Whether it goes well or not. That’s why he’s holding it over my head.”

_“What?”_ First Aid jumps to his feet, hands in fists at his sides. “He’s _blackmailing_ you?”

“Blackmailing is illegal,” Ambulon says, staring down at the stovetop. “All of _this_ is above board. He’s allowed to deny me my doctorate on disability grounds. He’s _allowed_ to ask a student to be a volunteer for this project. He’s allowed to do it for free.”

First Aid stares at the stovetop. “Fuck Pharma,” he says. And then, hopelessly, “are you going to do it?”

“I don’t know,” Ambulon says. “I don’t know.”

“I’m not asking for much,” Pharma says, adjusting his tie, “I’m just asking you not to embarrass me.”

First Aid watches those hands continue to fiddle, fluttering between his collar and his cufflinks and back, like they’re looking for some little imperfection. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Pharma was getting stage fright jitters. “Why did you bring us if you thought we would embarrass you?” He asks, instead of _why are you so nervous,_ which is what he _wants_ to ask. Pharma scowls back at him.

“I didn’t _bring_ you for your impeccable manners,” Pharma snaps. “I had to bring _someone._ Tragically, the two of you are the most promising of the new guard, and upper management thinks you should start making connections.” He curls his lip. “If I wasn’t speaking, I would’ve refused to come at all.”

“I’m very excited to hear your talk,” Ambulon says, soothingly, trying to smooth some of those ruffled feathers. “You said there would be pictures of my brain?”

“What? Oh, yes,” Pharma says. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, like someone’s about to jump him. “Yes, this will give you the exposure I’m sure you’ve always craved. Excuse me, I’ll go get ready.”

With another glance over his shoulder and a furtive side-to-side like a character in a silent film telegraphing sly suspicion, Pharma makes his way across the conference hall and disappears into the crowd. Ambulon and First Aid are left, standing next to each other in a sea of other, more qualified doctors, wearing their rent-to-own and ill-fitting suits. They make eye contact.

“Very excited to hear him talk, huh?” First Aid says. “You don’t have to suck up to him anymore, you know. He’s not our teacher anymore. He’s not even our boss.”

“I was covering my ass,” Ambulon replies, “I’m not going to his fucking lecture. I just wanted to double-check that he didn’t change the topic last minute to punk me.”

“You’re not going?”

“There’s a lecture about caesarean incisions in building C,” Ambulon says, pointing it out on the itinerary booklet and showing it to First Aid. “That’s in my field. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks, and they just moved the time. I can only go to one, so, like, fuck Pharma.”

“I mean, yeah, fuck Pharma,” First Aid says, “one of us should go, though, right? He seemed kind of nervous. Maybe he’s gonna bomb.”

“And you _want_ to watch him fail?” Ambulon grimaces. “Damn, Aid. Even I don’t hate him _that_ much.”

“I don’t want to see him bomb!” First Aid lies. “I just meant—I don’t know, I’ve never seen him get nervous about anything. Maybe something’s wrong.”

Ambulon chews his tongue, his jaw working gently, and looks over the heads of the mulling crowds of other doctors, older and more experienced and looking less uncomfortable in their clothes. “Maybe his ex-wife is here,” he says after a moment. “Maybe he’s scared of making a scene.”

_That_ gets First Aid’s attention. “He has an ex-wife?” He asks. “Wait, someone married him?”

Ambulon hushes him quickly, glancing around like he thinks _he’s_ gonna get in trouble. “Look, all I know is, the reason he took us and not other, more _established_ doctors at the hospital is, no one wanted to come because it’s the anniversary of his divorce or something,” he hisses. “I overheard Doc Hook mention it offhand. Apparently he gets _even more_ insufferable than he usually is this time of year. Anyone who knows better won’t come with him.”

First Aid thinks about this. “Damn, we got punked,” he mutters. He’s having an uncharacteristic pang of sympathy for Pharma. No wonder he’s such a bitter, lonely person—the only person (in the world, probably) who found him bearable divorced him. Then again, maybe Pharma divorced _her._ If that’s the case, no sympathy. But… yuck, divorce is just too complicated for his blood. His parents still kiss each other when they think he isn’t looking. “See, now I feel _bad._ I _have_ to go to his stupid talk now.”

Ambulon shakes his head. “Your funeral,” he says. “Tell me if my brain is as sexy as I am.”

This is how First Aid ends up stuck in the standing room at the back of a packed lecture hall, miserably watching Pharma clicking through slides and drawling away. There was a line to get in. They ran out of chairs. The dawning realization that Pharma actually _is_ as well-known and famous as he apparently thinks he is does nothing to boost his morale.

“Now, obviously, this surgery is still quite experimental,” Pharma is saying, “but there’s no such thing as progress without risk. Still, I would never have done it if the patient in question had not consented so vigorously.”

All the sympathy has _thoroughly_ drained out of First Aid, by the way. He doesn’t even know what he was _thinking,_ feeling _bad_ for this dumbass, self-obsessed charlatan. He keeps waving his hands at the screen and talking about how he’s actually a hero for having _agreed_ to do this, like he wasn’t the one holding Ambulon over a goddamn fire pit, telling him if he wanted his degree he’d have to chance being lobotomized. He’s got a notepad, for taking notes with? Scribbling _‘asshole’_ on it over and over again is actually kind of therapeutic.

There’s a rustle, and someone next to him elbows him. “Hey, I got in late,” he says, voice gruff, “what did I miss?”

First Aid glances over. Older guy, maybe forty or fifty, stocky, the furriest eyebrows he’s ever seen. “Uh,” First Aid says, and looks down at his notepad for guidance, as though he’s written anything useful on it. “It’s an experimental treatment. For seizures. Brain surgery.”

“That was the teaser on the booklet,” he says, suspiciously. “I’m almost twenty minutes late.”

“Well, there’s padding,” First Aid says circuitously, “he’s been talking a lot about how… hard it was to find a patient to do it on.”

“He’s been talking about himself,” the mystery doctor says, mouth gripped in a grim line. “It’s okay. He always does.”

First Aid covers his mouth so his neighbors don’t hear him snort.

“Now, the patient in question was actually one of my students at the time,” Pharma is saying from the stage, “which, as you can imagine, put even more pressure on me to succeed. I would have refused outright—believe me, I tried!—but he was so desperate for a treatment, I eventually had no choice but to relent.”

“Bullshit,” First Aid mutters. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the wall.

“He was on the path to be a surgeon,” Pharma goes on, “but he was struggling with tonic-clonic seizures, and couldn’t be allowed to practice. Now, he’s one of our best and brightest. In fact, I think he might actually be in the room,” he adds, amid a smattering of applause, and peers out into the audience. “Ambulon, are you here?”

First Aid freezes up. If Pharma actually figures out Ambulon ditched to go to a different lecture, neither of them will hear the end of it. He glances to his left and right, hoping fervently that the other thing got cancelled and Ambulon will miraculously pop up somewhere in the crowd, then figures it’s a lost cause. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he holds his hand up.

“He, uh, he had to step out,” he says, and feels Pharma’s eyes fall on him. “His, uh, pager was going off, and he didn’t want to interrupt…”

He trails off. Pharma is staring, face pale, half-smile absolutely rigid. He looks about half a second from committing murder. He is also, First Aid realizes after a moment of pants-shitting terror, not looking at First Aid. His eyes are focused on the guy right next to him, who has become the picture of innocent nonchalance.

“Well,” Pharma says, one hand clenching into a fist on the podium. “Well. That’s something we can all sympathize with.” There’s a small laugh around the room, one of those little giggles of recognition rather than humor, and a rustling as various doctors double-check that their own pager isn’t going off. First Aid doesn’t—he’s frozen, staring up at Pharma, who looks down, eyes closed, and swallows. A compartmentalizing technique, one they make you learn if you’re going to be a surgeon—your personal life and your professional life _have_ to be separate when you’ve got a scalpel in your hand. You don’t normally see it happen on a stage.

“Excuse me,” Pharma says after a moment, “lost my place in my cards. Alright, let’s talk procedure. Next slide, please?” There’s a click, and a picture of a brain (presumably Ambulon’s) appears on the projector. “Thank you. Now, we know the activity associated with tonic clonic seizures is localized on one side of the brain…"

First Aid tunes back out. The lecture drones on.

He tries to sneak out of the lecture hall first and make some much-needed distance, actually, as soon as the Q&A section is over, but the guy—older guy, one at the back of the conference hall—follows him out.

“You’re one of Pharma’s students, aren’t you?” The guy asks, patting him on the shoulder. Begrudgingly, First Aid stops and turns around. “Look, I don’t mean to put you in an awkward position—“

“It’s—it’s fine,” First Aid says quickly. He glances towards the conference hall surreptitiously—the last thing he needs right now is Pharma storming out of the room, seeing him talking to some old enemy, and basically freaking the fuck out about everything. “I used to be, um, but I graduated, I’m just his coworker now. Did the thesis, and everything! Resuscitative heart procedures, um, so we don’t work in the same surgical clinic anyway—“

Old guy points at him with a finger. “First Aid,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “you’re First Aid. I read your thesis.”

“You—huh?” First Aid blinks and adjusts his glasses. “No one read my thesis.”

“I did," old guy says. “I’m Ratchet, I used to work with Pharma. Now I’m posted up in West Virginia.” Out of a jacket pocket, he produces a business card and hands it to First Aid, who takes it and peers down at it. “I’m sure Chicago is treating you pretty well,” Ratchet says, “but if you’re looking for a change of scenery—a change of clientele, maybe—we’re always looking for young upcoming types. Give me a call any time.”

First Aid keeps staring at the business card. It’s not like there's that much to read on it, it’s just—it’s more like—well. He’s never gotten a sneaky, competitive job offer before. He kind of figured he’d keep working at Pharma’s hospital for a decade and then figure out how to jump ship once he’d climbed the ranks a bit, had a title and stuff. Bite the bullet, sweat for his work… 

“I won’t bullshit you,” Ratchet says, “it’s not exactly glamorous work, and it’s not a big hospital. But we could really use someone who can work their ass off, and if you studied under Pharma, I know you can. Small town, cheap cost of living.”

“Thanks, I would have to think about it,” First Aid says, “more to the point, this isn’t really about me, is it?”

Ratchet raises an eyebrow.

“Whatever’s going on between you and Pharma,” First Aid says, waving a hand, “I just don’t want to get caught up in—I mean, he’s my colleague. I don’t know if it’s appropriate for me to… I mean, you two _clearly_ know each other, don’t try to tell me you don’t.”

“Yes, we do,” Ratchet says. “I’m not asking you to commit right now, kid. That’s why my number’s on the card. Enjoy the rest of the conference, and—“

_“Ratchet,”_ spits Pharma’s voice, and First Aid stumbles back quickly, eyes flicking towards his Esteemed Colleague TM as he stalks towards the two of them. “What _exactly_ do you think you’re doing?”

There’s an almost imperceptible change in Ratchet’s demeanor, the set of his shoulders as he turns. A hardening in his eyes. First Aid watches it and thinks, oh, fuck, now I’ve gotten myself into real trouble. “Pharma,” he says, “always a pleasure to hear you lecture.”

“Stay away from my students,” Pharma snarls, and then, turning his head, “get yourself gone, First Aid. This has nothing to do with you.”

“Fine, Jesus,” First Aid says quickly, and takes another step back, hands up like he’s about to get patted down by an overzealous TSA agent. “I was leaving anyway.”

Later, when Pharma corners him at the conference’s complimentary lunch to warn him about staying away from Ratchet probably forever and Ambulon gets caught in the crossfire, First Aid thinks about the business card in his pocket. He thinks about Ambulon, and the long, stupid, narcissistic lecture he sat through for Pharma’s ego’s benefit. He thinks, I can’t wait to get to a landline. He wonders what West Virginia is like in the winter, and if it could possibly be worse than Chicago.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” First Aid says, agonized, his head in his hands. “Reno alone is going to cost a fortune.”

“But the house didn’t,” Ambulon says, all-too-cheerfully. “Besides, a bunch of that stuff we can do ourselves. Painting, flooring, tiling the kitchen backsplash…”

“You _cannot_ talk to me about kitchen backsplashes right now,” First Aid wails. “That Ironhide guy says the whole thing needs to be re-piped, says the bathrooms haven’t been updated in like, half a century! We can’t even _live_ there for like two years!”

He thunks his head onto the little island counter in Ratchet’s kitchen. They’ve been staying in their new employer’s guest bedroom for the past week, while sifting through the bleak real estate options in Midian Hill. And _bleak_ is the word. The only _finished_ space their agent was able to scrounge up for them was almost fifty miles outside of the city, and an hour long commute is just impossible. Ambulon makes a sympathetic noise and starts rattling Ratchet’s nice metal shaker. Neither of them have made any comments about the amount of gin in the house. It just didn’t seem polite.

“Ironhide’s a good contractor,” Ratchet says over his shoulder, standing at the cooktop. “He gave you two that estimate for free. He’s a friend of mine, he does good, honest work. And he’ll charge you in increments. It’s kind of like paying rent.”

“Oh, yes, of _course,”_ First Aid says, throwing a hand in the air. “Like paying rent in three different places! We’re going to have to take out a loan for the house—“

“No, we’re going to buy it outright,” Ambulon reminds him. “They’re charging us less than 20k for it. We had more than that saved up for a down payment.”

“Okay, fine, _two_ rents,” Aid mutters. “We’re going to have to rent somewhere else while they get some of that work done. The thing is _bones._ It’s bones where a house should be. We can’t actually _live_ there.”

“You could live here,” Ratchet says.

“Huh?” Says Ambulon.

“The guest room,” Ratchet says, and holds up a hand, suddenly the picture of awkward discomfort. “I wouldn’t charge you rent, just ask you to help pay utilities. And I’m hardly ever home, so, the two of you could… keep doing whatever it is you do, living alone.” He shrugs. First Aid notices, jaw slack, that his ears are actually _pink._

“You’re joking,” First Aid says, “I mean, are you joking?”

“Look, I need help at the hospital, all right?” Ratchet says defensively. “If you’re worried about finances—I mean, I remember being twenty-eight. The last thing I need is you two backing out of this job offer because you can’t afford to move. I’m more than happy to float you a personal loan, if you’d really rather rent out of town and drive in every day, but this seems cheaper.”

“I mean,” First Aid says, “we couldn’t possibly—I mean, if we were imposing, I wouldn’t—“

“Wow, that sounds like we’d only be paying _one_ rent,” Ambulon interrupts, and pops the cap off the shaker’s strainer. “We’d have to be _pretty stupid_ to say no to an offer like that, Ratchet, we’re unbelievably grateful for the opportunity. _Aren’t_ we, First Aid?”

“Uh,” First Aid says, and watches Ambulon pour gin rickey into his glass. “I mean. Sure. Of course.”

“Great, that’s settled,” Ratchet says, and turns back to the stove. “Also, I hope you two like stew, because that’s what there is.”

After dinner, which is hearty enough that First Aid is a little worried about the state of his intestinal tract, they retire upstairs to the guest room. Ambulon is wandering around the perimeter of it in newfound interest, like that little HGTV-obsessed brain is figuring out the best way to spruce up a space he’s suddenly realized he’ll be living in. First Aid anxiously sifts through his suitcase, looking for clothes that are still clean.

“We’ll go back to the site tomorrow with Ironhide,” Ambulon says, “I’ll get him to walk me through what they need to do, room-to-room; Ratchet says he’d be happy to give us an afternoon of chat if we buy lunch for him afterwards.” He glances across the room at First Aid, a sneaky little grin crossing his face. “He’s kinda cute, for an older guy,” he says, “you think Ratchet’s sweet on him?”

“Whaaat,” First Aid says, “don’t be gross. They’re friends! And they’re so _old.”_

“You think old people can’t be into each other? That’s so ageist. You’re ageist.”

“That’s not what I meant,” First Aid says, waving a hand like a flag of surrender, “I just mean, this place is not exactly a hotspring of powerful gay pride, you know? People here… I don’t know, they don’t act like they want that kind of thing around.” He sits back on his heels. “I don’t know,” he says again. “I don’t know if we could really make a life here. If we could really belong here. You know?”

“Hey…”

“We’re not making a mistake, right?” First Aid asks, suddenly—intensely—panicked, chest tight. “It’s not too late to back out of everything, you know? Which I wouldn’t! But we’re doing the right thing, right? Leaving Chicago?”

Ambulon softens all over. “Everybody worth their salt leaves Chicago sometime,” he says gently, “even if it’s just to prove they can.” He comes over and sits down on the ground next to First Aid, touches his back. His hand is warm through Aid’s shirt. “How long were we going to stay in that dinky apartment, anyway? Getting bossed around by a jackass with no respect for our skills like some kind of over-concerned parent?”

First Aid sniffs. “Fuck Pharma,” he says, firmly.

“Right,” Ambulon says. “It’s getting late, and we’ve got an early start tomorrow. Let’s get some sleep.”

“See, here’s the other problem,” First Aid says, when they’ve gotten changed into something resembling sleepwear (each sporting an ill-fitted shirt from a different museum gift shop), “how are we supposed to live here for, like, a _year?_ Look at this. There’s one bed.”

Ambulon gasps and covers his mouth with a hand. “Oh my _god,_ there’s _only one bed,”_ he says, dramatically. “Just like in all your _fanfictions,_ what are we going to do?”

“Shut up!” Aid says, pink in the face, and hits Ambulon with his pillow. He struggles into bed, sheets cool to the touch, and rolls over quickly. Last night, he found himself face to face with his best friend, sleepy breath skirting over his cheek, and it was a _mistake._ He’s not that strong, alright? There’s self-restraint that’s basically within his reach, and then there’s _that._

Not that Ambulon seems to have any trouble with any of that. He conks out in about ten minutes every night and just starts snuggling up. First Aid sighs and pretends not to notice as Ambulon flicks the light off and crawls into bed on the other side. They arrange themselves carefully to leave a space between them.

“You know what’s been wigging me out?” Ambulon says in the darkness. First Aid rolls over to face him. They’re inches away from one another. “You think Ratchet and Pharma ever fucked in this bed?”

_“What?”_ First Aid kicks him under the covers. “Why would _they_ have fucked? Gross! Why are you so _permanently_ gross?”

Ambulon gives him a weird look. “I mean, they were together,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “for, like, a really long time. And this used to be Ratchet’s mom’s house? And this is… the guest room?”

There’s a pregnant pause.

_“Ratchet_ is Pharma’s ex?” First Aid asks, agog.

“Oh my God,” Ambulon says, “Aid, you’re, like, the stupidest smart person I’ve ever met in my life.”

He rolls over, and First Aid is left staring at his back. There’s a space between them, of course. All except their legs, tangled together from their kickfight. They could untangle them, First Aid thinks. Except that they’re comfortable, and warm, and Ambulon’s already slipping away.

He has a dream about backsplashes.


End file.
